Nude at the Con The New World of SwapTech chapter 12 by bodyswapbabe

Jonas took one last breath at the mirror.

The suit was gone—trashed, unsalvageable, and frankly beyond forgiveness. His body, though, was at least clean now. Scrubbed down with hand soap and a mountain of paper towels. His thighs were a little raw. His pride had packed its bags and left hours ago.

All that remained was six feet of Power Girl muscle, boob, and shame.

He looked down.

“No pockets. No cape. No clue.”

He wrapped his arms around his chest—as best he could, anyway. Her tits were so absurdly large they overflowed even his forearms. The nipples were still embarrassingly perky in the chill of the AC.

“Goddammit,” he hissed. “Alright. Head down. Don’t make eye contact. Just… blend.”

Then he pushed the door open and walked out.

The hallway was packed.

Cosplayers, families, vendors, nerds with cameras slung around their necks. People with soda cups, overpriced bags of merch, bubble tea, posters. Dozens of conversations buzzed at once. Flashbulbs went off. Someone was juggling.

And then they all saw her.

Gasps. Stares. Some guy dropped his anime sword.

A girl dressed as Harley Quinn elbowed her friend and said, “Holy shit, that’s commitment.”

A guy in a Green Lantern shirt just choked on his churro.

Jonas flushed deep red and picked up his pace. He walked stiffly, arms still clamped around his chest, thighs rubbing awkwardly together. His long legs were doing their best to strut, but it came out looking more like a shame-powered runway walk.

Someone wolf-whistled.

“Nice cosplay!”

Another voice, too excited: “IS THAT BODYPAINT OR REAL?!”

Then came the phones.

They were everywhere. Popping up like mushrooms after rain. One dude literally turned around mid-walk, tripped over a trash bin, and still didn’t stop recording.

Jonas spotted a merch booth up ahead. A big red sign: “COSTUMES & COSPLAY REPAIRS!”

He made a beeline for it, dodging a pack of gawking teens.

Behind the table was a guy in his twenties, neckbeard, bored expression, flipping through a manga. Jonas slammed both hands on the counter, jiggling violently in the process. The man’s eyes popped open.

“I need a costume,” Jonas hissed. “Now. Anything. A shirt. A poncho. I don’t care.”

The neckbeard behind the booth just blinked. “Uh, yeah, sorry. We sold out of all the easy fix stuff. You can try the foam armor guy across the aisle?”

Jonas squinted. “You’re telling me you don’t have anything?”

The guy’s eyes couldn’t decide where to land—her tits, her abs, the way her hips sloped like comic book dreams. “I mean. I got eyes, if that helps.”

Jonas stood upright, scowling. Her nipples were hard now. From the AC. Not anything else. Not because she was being ogled by a dude who probably hadn’t done laundry since the last MCU movie.

She huffed. “You’re useless.”

He grinned. “You’re perfect.”

Jonas flipped him off and kept walking.

The crowd parted wherever she went, a mix of ogling, whispering, snickering, and open-mouthed stares. Someone tried to take a selfie with her mid-stride; she shoved past. Her arms were cramping from trying to hide her chest, and the ache in her bare feet on the tile was making her wince.

She ducked into the next vendor’s area—this one themed like a faux fantasy tavern, with a sign in fake woodcut font that read “Ye Olde Cosplay & LARP Wear.”

The guy behind the table was in faux leather armor, and he straightened the moment she walked up.

“Milady,” he said, eyes wide, “you appear to be in... distress.”

Jonas deadpanned. “Brilliant deduction. I need clothes. Cheap ones. Fast.”

He leaned forward, grinning wolfishly. “I might have something that would fit a divine creature such as yourself. But the question is... what’s it worth to you?”

Jonas blinked. “Seriously?”

“Perhaps a kiss from those heavenly lips?” He gestured vaguely at her chest. “Or—if I may be bold—a photograph? To treasure?”

Jonas said nothing for a moment. Then reached across the table, picked up a novelty foam sword, and cracked it down on the man’s head hard enough that it broke the sword.

“Ow!”

“I’m not paying with boob coupons, jackass,” she muttered. “Next.”

The third vendor was a tall, exhausted woman with buzzed hair, piercings, and a giant Monster Energy beside her cash box. She looked Jonas up and down as she approached.

“Let me guess,” she said, deadpan. “Wardrobe malfunction.”

“Explosive diarrhea,” Jonas answered. “It’s a long story.”

The woman didn’t flinch. “Fair enough. You’re the fourth girl in an hour with a crisis. Though no one else was quite as... bold. Only thing left in your size is... well, hang on.”

She turned, rummaged through a trunk, and pulled out something that jingled.

Jonas’s heart sank.

It was a chainmail bikini. Full-on fantasy bimbo gear. Triangle metal cups. Flimsy bottom. So small, it looked like it’d barely fit a Barbie doll—let alone a six-foot-tall Power Girl with war-grade curves.

The vendor held it up, shrugged. “This or nothing.”

Jonas stared at it.

“I hate this universe.”